Posts Tagged ‘Khodasevich’

More from Khodasevich’s 1924 memoir on Bryusov quoted in the previous post. Card players inadvertently reveal their deeper selves to discerning eyes: I have played cards a lot in my day; I have seen many players, both occasional and professional. I believe that at the card table, one can learn a great deal about people – at any … keep reading

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Language Hat has a post on the card game played by Grandma Lausch and her Hungarian friend Mr. Kreindl in The Adventures of Augie March by Saul Bellow. It’s called klabyash in the book while clobyosh seems to be the more common spelling, and the present-day Russian names for similar games are deberts, klabor, and belot. … keep reading

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In one of his bitterest poems, In Front of the Looking Glass, Vladislav Khodasevich wondered how he, once a young dancer at summer balls in Ostankino, near Moscow, had mutated into a critic whose every riposte induces “revulsion, animus and fear” in young émigré poets. Or perhaps “spite” or “malice” for the second term and “loathing” for … keep reading

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While I’m pondering upon Political Philosophie, here’s a translation attempt. [Edited in 2017.] The original poem dates back to the early 1920s. A half-forgotten comfort, The blessing of a night carouse! A sip — and you need nothing, A sip — and you want more, And life before the unsober eye So deeply is bared … keep reading

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And thus the evil heart is tempting Psyche’s pure dreams – And Psyche, in response: “O the earthly, “Of the celestial what do you know?” Khodasevich, in the times of the New Economic Policy, which he couldn’t stand.

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A literal, but not quite, prosaic translation of a poem by Vladislav Khodasevich (1887, Moscow–1939, Paris) that must have something to do with Leibnitz’s monads. The Soul My soul is like a full moon: It’s cold and clear. On high, on its own, it shines and shines And will not dry my tears; My grief … keep reading

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It is the iambic tetrameter (the “four-foot iambus” in Russian). The author is Vladislav Khodasevich (Wladyslaw Chodasiewicz in Polish, his father’s mother tongue, with the l’s crossed), whom Nabokov rated the best Russian poet of the 20th century. Written in 1938, it is considered Khodasevich’s last poem. I wish there were a simple English adjective … keep reading